Chapter 1 - The Cars at My Door
The first thing I noticed was that neither police car had its siren on.
The second was the ambulance parked halfway down the block, outside the range of my front camera.
I replayed Gavin's voicemail three times before I understood what bothered me.
He had sounded frightened when he mentioned Brenda, but perfectly composed when he said my name.
I called the dispatcher rather than calling my husband back.
“My name is Claire Morgan, and I own the house on Hawthorne Lane.”
The woman asked me to verify my birthday and address.
Then she told me officers were responding to a reported disturbance and a dispute over occupancy.
“Is anyone hurt?”
“I can't confirm anyone's medical condition, ma'am.”
“Who called?”
“That information may be in the incident report.”
I had been staying with my friend Naomi for three nights, and she was awake before I put down the phone.
She came into the room holding a glass of water and saw my suitcase open on the floor.
“You're not going back there alone,” she said.
“I wasn't planning to.”
My security app had one feature Gavin never bothered learning about: it stored recordings remotely, independent of the little camera above the door.
At 1:57 a.m., Brenda appeared on the porch carrying my red folder.
My stomach tightened so suddenly I had to sit down.
I had packed the original folder in my suitcase, and it was still beside Naomi's bed.
What Brenda held was another red folder, almost identical to mine.
At 2:01, she stepped out of frame.
At 2:06, a dark sedan pulled into my driveway.
An unfamiliar woman in a gray coat walked to the door, carrying a rectangular case.
Gavin let her inside.
Six minutes later, Brenda staggered onto the porch and sat down hard on the top step.
The stranger followed, carefully keeping her case shut.
Gavin called emergency services at 2:12.
I kept watching until the footage reached 2:19, when an officer stepped inside and immediately looked up at my camera.
His expression changed, and he spoke into his radio.
The next clip should have shown the hallway.
Instead, the app displayed a notice I had never seen before.
Interior camera disconnected at owner's request.
I had made no such request.
Naomi leaned over my shoulder.
“Claire, who has your password?”
I stared at the screen, thinking of every time Gavin had borrowed my phone.
Then an unfamiliar number lit up the display.
A text appeared.
Don't believe the story about the ambulance.
Before I could answer, a second message arrived.
May you like
Ask what they found under the stairs.
